


Ghost Stories

by KChan88



Series: Sailing By Orion's Star: Deleted Scenes [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: One night aboard the Liberte, Prouvaire and Bahorel tell the tale of the Flying Dutchman to tease Michel after they hear about his jumpiness over ghost stories, giving him an induction of sorts into the crew. Later, Michel and Enjolras share a brief moment. 
Beware the Flying Dutchman!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Specifically speaking this lost scene fits in the timeline of chapter 29 in the main narrative in particular, but could easily be read without having yet read that chapter! It takes place a few nights after Michel takes part on his first pirate voyage, which involves going after a Spanish merchant ship that transports slaves (and some gold).

**Aboard the Liberte.**

As night falls after they catch the Spanish slave ship, Michel finds himself in the midst of a celebration on deck. Men dash across, lighting every lantern and casting a warm glow about the entire ship. He looks over, seeing a similar scene on the _Misericorde_ as it sails close by, the easy current and near perfect winds letting the ships remain together. He watches the musicians set up on the main deck, strains of merry music following soon after. He hears the tell-tale sound of corks popping off rum bottles, and Rene walks up beside him at the same time.

“I thought there were rules about liquor on board,” Michel says, quirking one eyebrow.

“There are,” Enjolras answers, crossing his arms, but he’s smirking. “None of the men on the watch in the next few hours are allowed more than a small taste, and the rest a limited amount. But we’ve had a victory today, they’re allowed to celebrate. We keep to the articles but some rules were meant to be bent, a bit.”

“So they were,” Michel says, pressing his son’s shoulder. “Though I suppose what I took part in today was a bit more than bending.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras says, fondness in his eyes and Michel warms at the sight. “Quite true. We’ll have to come up with a proper pirate name for you, if you’re not careful.”

“Oh well,” Michel says, playing along. “Certainly. I imagine Bossuet might be good at that.”

“Bossuet would give you some sort of terrible pun for a name.”

“Ah but you like puns,” Michel counters.

“So I do,” Enjolras says, raising his hands up in mock defeat.

Michel opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off by the sound of a delighted voice nearby and a hand seizing his wrist.

“Storytime!” Prouvaire shouts, attempting to drag him toward the circle of men gathering near the musicians, who have lowered their volume, a soft, eerie tune floating into the air and sending goosebumps up Michel’s spine.

“Oh, no,” Michel protests, gesturing with his hands. “I’ll just stay here.”

“You will _not_ ,” Bahorel says, coming up to them. “It’s ship rules that new recruits must listen to Jehan’s ghost stories and live to tell the tale.”

“Rene,” Michel says, turning toward his son. “Weren’t we just talking about bending rules?”

“Ah not this one I’m afraid,” Enjolras says, amusement in his voice. “This one always stands.”

“Betrayed by my own son,” Michel says, trying to sound serious.

“Pirate first, son second,” Bahorel says, taking Michel’s other wrist and pulling him toward the group, plopping him down between Combeferre and Astra.

“Will you save me?” Michel pleads, looking at Astra.

“No dear,” she says, patting his knee and grinning. “It’s fun, just listen.”

“If I’m up because of this I’ll keep the rest of you up,” Michel threatens.

“Not if we then send you down below to sleep in the general quarters,” Combeferre says without pause, taking a sip of his rum, lips twitching into a half smile. “If you keep most of the crew up they’ll never let you forget it again.”

“Well then,” Michel says, mock-affronted.

Bahorel sits down next to some of the men who hand him a second glass of rum, and a memory jumps into Michel’s mind.

“Wait a moment,” he says, getting Bahorel’s attention. “I was told you used to be quite terrified of Prouvaire’s stories.”

“Rude of you to bring up a man’s past like that,” Bahorel says, but he’s grinning. “I was a _bit_ afraid…”

“Very,” Joly interjects from nearby. “He was very afraid. Used to poke me in the middle of the night asking me what every sound was when we were all on the _Misericorde_.”

“Did someone ask you, Jolllly?” Bahorel interjects.

“Freedom of speech aboard this ship,” Joly protests, winking at Michel, who cannot help but smile back.

“Anyhow,” Bahorel says. “Now I do the sound effects, you know. Adds a particular air.”

“It does,” Prouvaire says, stepping into the center of the circle, met with applause and none too few whistles from the men, some of the slaves they’d rescued earlier emerging from below to join them, curious. “Now,” he says, turning around in a circle and gazing at each of them, eyes settling on Michel with a glimmer of mischief. “Tonight I am going to tell one of the most _haunting_ stories I know, one all of you have heard before.” Prouvaire lowers his voice, and Michel hears the ominous sound of the violin in his ears, though up till now he’s not certain a violin could sound so. “The story of the Flying Dutchman!”

“The Flying Dutchman!” Bahorel exclaims behind him. “The infamous ghost ship with a skeletal crew.”

Michel looks around, seeing a majority of the men enraptured, eyes wide with anticipation, ready to jump already at the most frightening parts of the story. Michel’s trouble wasn’t that he was afraid in the moment, exactly. He knew the stories weren’t true, but he could never convince himself of that as the night grew darker and every inch of the ship creaked, sleep suddenly refusing to cast its spell over him.

“Ship of doom!” Courfeyrac crows from between Enjolras and Feuilly.

“Yes,” Prouvaire says, nodding solemnly at Courfeyrac before turning back toward Michel and stepping closer to him. “The ship of doom indeed. Have you had any sightings of the Flying Dutchman, Monsieur Enjolras?” he asks.

“Can’t say that I have,” Michel says, though out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees the stars lighting up the specter of a ghost ship, but it’s gone as quick as it came.

“But you’ve heard the stories,” Prouvaire presses, fighting against a smile, and he clears his throat, frowning again.

“Every sailor has,” Michel says.

“But you give it no credence?”

“I…” Michel says, feeling the eyes of the near seventy crew members on him, transfixed. “I wouldn’t say _no_ credence. Not a great _deal_ of credence.”

“No one can prove the existence of ghosts,” Combeferre points out. “But no one can disprove them, either.”

“There are conflicting ideas about whether the name the Flying Dutchman originated as the name of the captain or the name of the ship,” Prouvaire says. “But they did run into a storm near the Cape of Good Hope, and the captain, who they say worked for the Dutch East India Company, neglected to see the looming clouds gaining on them. The clouds of a storm for the ages, blackened with rain and rage.”

“To their _peril_ ,” Bahorel adds from behind Prouvaire.

“I’m certain you wouldn’t ignore such a storm, Monsieur Enjolras,” Prouvaire says.

“No,” Michel says, feeling goosebumps race across his arms. “Certainly not.”

“Well this captain did,” Prouvaire says, walking slowly around in the group, jumping randomly at various men, all of whom jump back or give a shout before bursting into laughter, but the sounds die into the eerie hush that’s fallen over the deck as Prouvaire tells the legend, the wind whistling sharply in Michel’s ear.

Somehow, Michel muses, sailors were simultaneously entertained and frightened of superstitions and stories they’d heard a thousand times. But that was the rule of sailing; if you outright ignored an old tale, it might just came back for you.

“The crew fought for hours to get out of the storm,” Prouvaire continues. “But before the ship went under, before every.last.member of his crew perished as the ship hit the rocks and plunged into the depths, the captain said ‘I will round this cape even if I have to keep sailing until doomsday!’ Well. They certainly met their doomsday. Eternally. With not even Davy Jones’ locker for an escape. No, those men are doomed to sail the seas forever.”

Michel gulps, internally chiding himself as he had his men so many times over for taking such tales seriously, hearing Arthur’s pleased laugher echoing in his head. He looks briefly over at Combeferre, who grins wryly at his friends’ antics.

“ _Forever_ ,” Bahorel emphasizes. “They say if you spot the Flying Dutchman on the seas, someone aboard may meet their doom soon after. Possibly the entire ship.”

“Quite true,” Prouvaire says. “We are lucky tonight, because our path is well lit, but next time we sail on a cloudy night, beware.”

“Beware!” Grantaire calls out, jumping up to join Prouvaire. “Sometimes the crew of the Dutchman will try to send messages from the dead…to the living. And a curse upon any who touch the missive.”

At this, Prouvaire turns back toward Michel, winking.

Later that night when Michel heads to the watch shift he volunteered for, taking a stint at the wheel, he finds a letter on the deck with his name written on it in ominous red ink, knowing it certainly wasn’t the crew of the Flying Dutchman who left it for him.

Yet he _does_ hesitate before picking it up.

“Oh good lord man come now,” he whispers to himself, finally retrieving it from the ground and unfolding the page.

_Beware the Flying Dutchmannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn_ , it reads. Then further down _. And welcome aboard._

“It seems you are one of us now,” Michel hears a voice say from behind him, seeing Rene approach with some of Prouvaire’s mischief in his eyes.

“I would not give myself that honor just yet,” Michel says, but he smiles. “Though I am working on it.”

“How about I teach you the ins and outs of steering the _Liberte_?” Enjolras offers, stepping up closer. “She can be a bit finicky, sometimes.”

“I’d like that,” Michel says, recognizing the echo of the scene between them so many years ago, when he’d given Rene his first steering lesson on the _Navigator_. “I’d like that very much.”


End file.
